On the Edge of Paradise
by spectators
Summary: "But why?" she repeats, this time more firmly. "You had Pepper. Morgan. You had a life ahead of you—a damn good one at that. So why give it up?" There's a gap that lasts several seconds before Tony responds, and the hairs on the back of Natasha's neck rise when he does. "Whatever it takes." —Natasha, Tony, Valhalla, and a confrontation long overdue.


**A/N: **I started writing this almost a year ago to cope with my very mixed feelings on Endgame. I finished it yesterday because almost ten months later, my opinion of the movie has only gotten lower, but I still think Tony and Natasha deserved better, so here we are. I hope you all like it, and constructive criticism is welcome.

* * *

Death is warm.

Which, in hindsight, is strange. She'd imagined it would be cold—bitter—like over-chilled Bordeaux on the tip of her tongue, or something of the like, but she supposes there aren't many sensations that can easily be compared to those of one's demise.

Warmth continues to flood through and inundate her senses, and the end—who knew the end would be so serene? She'd always known the experience would be serene, pleasant, at least in the cognitive sense, but shouldn't there be a tad more bodily pain? More strain in her muscles?

Unless—

Natasha's eyes flicker open. She exhales.

—unless she hasn't died at all.

Natasha carefully rises from her position lying on the floor, expecting to lose her footing at a moment's notice, but she never does, and there isn't so much as a sore bone to signify that she's just plummeted to her death. She feels…rejuvenated. More alive than she's felt in the last five years. Somehow, she's managed to make a full recovery, and that…Well, the notion certainly doesn't impress her, not when so much is at stake.

She surveys her surroundings and sees white. She's encircled by white mist, mist so surreal that it leaves Natasha's head spinning. She can only see white for miles.

_Where...?_

Natasha examines her hands; there are no bruises, no scrapes. She runs her fingers through her hair, unraveling her braid and tracing her scalp; there are no wounds there either.

She inspects herself further: she's wearing the same agility suit she wore on Vomir, except there are no bloodstains in sight and she's been stripped bare of her weapons. That is…

The fog clears some, just enough to make a narrow way for Natasha and for her to discern the gold illuminating at what she assumes is the end of the path.

She purses her lips. Surely this isn't the work of some unknown enemy. The idea alone is ludicrous, but she isn't ruling out any options. Besides, it's no more far-fetched than space-time travel, and she did that. Honestly, she hasn't stopped believing in the unthinkable since aliens came rushing from a portal in the sky in Manhattan eleven years ago, courtesy of one particularly unhinged demigod.

_Well, we'll see what we're in for when we get there, won't we?_ she thinks before moving along the pathway.

The trek isn't long, though it seems longer, and it makes her anxious for whatever reason. However, when she finally approaches the end of the hall and beholds the impossibly tall, wide gleaming gold gates, she realizes that the adrenaline in the pit of her stomach isn't a result of anxiety, but of incredulity.

She knows this place. Thor used to speak so fondly of it whenever he took the time to drop by the Tower, whenever they were all there, _together_. He spoke of the golden gates, the dreamlike mist, the vigor that would run through veins. She didn't doubt that it existed (how could she?), but Natasha isn't a god. She isn't a warrior. And she can't possibly be worthy of _this_.

But if she is dead, and this is really the afterlife, then that means her actions weren't in vain after all and Clint must have gotten the soul stone—which means they have a better chance at reversing the snap.

Clint…She hopes against hope that he gets his family back. That he gets his happy ending. Even if Natasha can't ever get hers, it's worth it if billions of others will.

With this in mind, the corners of Natasha's lips turn upward in a smile. Yes, it's more than worth it.

Leaving her reverie, she gears her attention back to the gates. They're beautiful, in an almost comforting way, with their intricate patterns and swirls, and Natasha reaches out to touch them, her fingers barely brushing against their surface when a voice calls out.

"Not gonna lie—this ranked first on the list of Places I Never Expected to See You. That said, I didn't expect to end up here, but, you know. Anne Boleyn probably didn't expect to be beheaded either when she married Old Coppernose. Things happen."

That impertinent yet welcoming smarminess—she didn't think she'd ever hear that again. Not from anyone, but definitely not from _him_. Natasha whips around and, for once, can hardly believe what she's seeing.

"Oh, God," she mutters, because there stands Tony Stark in the—not flesh, but he certainly isn't an apparition, and like Natasha, he looks untouched, fresher than she's ever seen him, even with the faint gray tinting his hair and goatee. An emotion she can't identify lodges in her throat. "Tony, you..."

"Yeah," he replies with a flippant look. "I'm still processing, but yeah. More importantly: are we where I think we are?"

"_Valhalla_," she breathes.

He frowns, eyes darting about the vicinity. He furrows his brows. "Right. The Asgardian afterlife. Though, honestly, it looks more like a pot-smoking party gone unimaginably wrong—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't deflect," she say, voice barely above a whisper. "Why are you here, Tony?"

Tony averts his gaze to the floor, cocking his head to the side before replying simply, "Same reason you are."

Which means...

"Did we win?" she asks instead, even as her insides reel from his admission.

"Well, I'm dead, aren't I?" he quips, and Natasha nods, slowly, her mind far away from the conversation. Tony goes on. "What? You don't want me to elaborate? There were no casualties on our side. I mean, there's me, obviously, but..."

"I'm fine, thanks" she mutters brusquely, turning her back to him.

She can't pinpoint why she feels so...discombobulated, suddenly. Maybe it's because to Natasha, she was the only one who was supposed to give her life for their cause, not anybody else. But on the other hand, she also feels relief. Because if what Tony says about no casualties is true, then her family is alive. Her family is safe.

But then there's Tony himself. She and Tony had never been close—well-acquainted, but never close. Not in the way she'd been with Clint and Steve. But like Clint, he'd had a wife, a family, a reason to live, and she'd had her family too—the one she'd found in the Avengers—but they _were_ her reason to live, and what was the point if the ones she loved couldn't enjoy life, regardless if she was there to see them enjoy it?

She can hear Tony cluck his tongue, a smart comment no doubt at the ready.

"Do you think there's—?"

"Why?" she interrupts him, voice cracking as she pivots to face him, even as she wills herself to be stronger. She _is_ stronger. She's Natasha Romanoff. "Everything you had. Everything you gained. You gave it up—all of it."

Tony's eyes taper unceremoniously before he folds his arms and sighs, his sardonic facade all but dropping. "I wouldn't say I gave it up, per se. That sounds a little selfish, don't you think?"

"But why?" she repeats, this time more firmly. "You had Pepper. Morgan. You had a life ahead of you—a damn good one at that. So why give it up?"

There's a gap that lasts several seconds before Tony responds, and the hairs on the back of Natasha's neck rise when he does.

"Whatever it takes."

With the uttering of those three words—the mantra she'd recited in her head like clockwork following the Decimation, desperate for just a thread of silver lining—her blood goes cold. She doesn't know the circumstances surrounding Tony's death, and she doesn't think she wants to, but she does know, and she's positive of this, that the man standing in front of her has sacrificed himself for the greater good of the world.

_The universe_, her mind supplies. The greater good of the universe.

She thinks back to their first meeting. Back to when she was undercover as Natalie Rushman, sent in to evaluate him for the project then known as the "Avengers Initiative". And her report, oh, _her report_, she can remember that clearly. Iron Man: Yes. Tony Stark: Not Recommended. She'd carelessly misjudged and written him off as an immature prick. Their history together isn't one she's proud of, because who knew that man—the perceived narcissistic egomaniac—would someday help save billions?

Natasha hadn't. Not back then.

She doesn't know what convinces her to do it, what part of her brain thinks that this is a good idea. But before she can stop herself, she takes the necessary steps forward and flings herself into Tony's arms.

He tenses instantaneously, caught off-guard. For a second Natasha thinks that this is a bad idea after all, and that she's overstepped an invisible boundary, and that he has no reason to trust her, let alone accept her affection, which is surely only a manifestation of her guilt, and—

He hugs her back.

It's Natasha's turn to be shocked as he slowly but firmly wraps his arms around her waist, drawing her closer and burrowing his face into her hair, and he's warm, so, so warm. Warmer than anyone dead should be.

"I'm sorry," she says in the quiet of the vicinity, and because she doesn't exactly know what she's apologizing for—grossly mischaracterizing him? Choosing Steve over him during the Accords fiasco despite previously asserting that her main goal was to keep them together? Every moment before and after that?—she adds, "For everything. I'm sorry for everything."

"..._Everything_?"

Tony sounds incredulous, and when Natasha pulls away, she finds that an odd, crooked kind of expression has settled onto his face.

"Everything," she reiterates, unyielding. She doesn't believe in taking back her words, not anymore.

"Well, that's the thing," he says. "There is no everything. I'm not...I'm not blameless. It just so happens that you owned up to your mistakes first. Granted, you didn't have to."

Natasha cranes a sincerely confused eyebrow. "Tony, my report. The Accords. I lied. I was duplicitous. I was biased. I was—"

"A triple impostor," he finishes, and his visible cringe doesn't escape her notice. His hands move from her waist to his side, his expression shifting into something earnest.

_Something like regret,_ she realizes.

"When I first met you," he starts, "the first thing I thought was, '_Wow_. What a knockout', which in retrospect is so objectifying now that I think about it, and yeah, sorry about that. Not the proudest moment of my life. But anyway, when I met you—the _real_ you, not Natalie Whatsherface—I didn't...Well, I thought you were a liar. And a triple impostor. And, after your report, inexplicably bias."

Natasha stiffens. Where is he going with this? She feels bad as it is, so he isn't possibly trying to guilt-trip her more than his mere presence already has, is he? "Yes...I said all of those things already. Your point?"

He shakes his head. "No, no. What I mean to say is..." He makes a vague hand motion. "I misjudged you. Maybe more so than you did me. I held your actions against you for so long that I didn't even consider for a second that maybe I wasn't the most, say, _forthcoming_ person. I mean, we can't all be Will Smith—that's like asking Messi and Ronaldo fans to stop hating on each other—but the point is this: I have as much to apologize for as you do, and I _am_ sorry, even for all the offenses I can't remember. You're not perfect, but neither am I. And that's...I think that's okay. But what do I know? We're dead and apparently in Valhalla? So it didn't matter to somebody. Catch my drift? Because I lost whatever point I was trying to make fifteen seconds ago—_oh. _We're doing this again. Okay."

"You're damn right we are," Natasha mutters into his shoulder, pulling him closer, and if water pricks at her eyelids, well, she can't bring herself to care. A decade ago, she would have never allowed herself to get this close to someone else physically (save for Clint when she was in a good mood), but she isn't the same Natasha Romanoff from ten years ago.

And this isn't the same Tony Stark from ten years ago, either. This isn't the same man who used to remind everyone whenever he got the chance that he didn't like being "handed things", the man who didn't trust her as far as he could throw her (or she hopes he isn't, though this wouldn't be the first time she's disappointed someone). This man is compassionate, and caring, and _kind_, and for the time ever, she thinks that maybe they—she and Tony—can finally be at peace with each another.

"So," Tony says as he dislodges himself from her arms too soon for her liking, and they both pretend not to notice the sentimental quiver in his voice, "what next, Agent Romanoff? Wanna go see if Thor was lying about how great this place is? I mean, if we're even where we think we are."

"Natasha."

"What?"

"Natasha," she repeats. "That's my name." She smirks a little. "You knew that, right?"

"Please," he scoffs, but there's another emotion in his tone. Absently, she wonders how long he's been waiting for her permission. "But I think I prefer—_Triple Impostor_."

"Stop. Just stop."

"Okay, but seriously... Not trying to deflect here, but about these gates—" he waves a hand in their direction "—what's the deal with these gates? Do they open by osmosis the closer we get or do we, like, knock?"

"I...I have no idea," she says truthfully, a grin blossoming on her face. It feels nice. Not having to act like she knows everything. It'll take some getting used to though.

She glances over her shoulder at the gates, then back to Tony. "Guess we'll just have to see for ourselves."

Tony still looks unsure, but he nods nonetheless, muttering something unintelligible to himself. Natasha manages to catch specific phrases such as, "Fuck, this is so weird", and, "Guess I'm a god now."

As they draw closer to the gates, a sense of euphoria overcomes Natasha, something powerful but wonderful pulsing through her veins, and she starts to mention it to Tony, but her words die in her throat as the gates choose that moment to flutter open.

A rush of mist emanates from inside them, and Natasha squints in a futile attempt to see what lies beyond the enclosure.

"I don't know about you," Tony says, "but I was pretty sure I only had to worry about dying on Earth. And right now I'm pretty sure I'm gonna die if I walk through those doors."

Natasha chokes on a laugh, the only reason she manages to keep her expression impassive being years of practice. "Don't start now, Tony."

"But why stop now? You only have eternity."

At the sound of the light, tender voice, Natasha's head snaps up, and from the mist emerges a statuesque woman who, for all she can see, isn't quite floating, but her graceful, aerial gait comes pretty damn close. She's wearing a fairly simple blue gown, her golden hair flowing down her shoulders in waves, but she somehow manages to look more ethereal than even...Thor.

"Are you Frigga?" she asks, searching the woman's features. Blue eyes. Golden hair. A kind face. The description, if not a little general, fits.

The woman smiles gently and nods. "Guilty. I'm assuming Thor told you about me?"

"Son of a bitch, this really is Valhalla," Tony intones, staring at Frigga as though she's grown three heads and a snout. Natasha nudges him in the side.

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I have no idea why he's acting so brand new. The man literally invented time travel."

Frigga laughs. It's a strangely endearing laugh. "No need for formalities here, child. Our commonalities connect us, the primal one being none of us are alive."

"That's fair," Natasha concedes.

Frigga gives what can only be described as a million-watt smile and crosses her hands in front of her. "Do you have any questions before we move beyond the gates?"

Tony's hand shoots up instantaneously. Natasha rolls her eyes. She loves him for it, but damn if this guy isn't ridiculous.

"I've actually got a question," he says. "Several questions, actually, but for the sake of time, I've got one. Just the one. So I'm pretty sure me and Red bit the dust, like, hours apart. How does that work? Hell, how does any of this work? But, yeah. How does that work?"

"It's not complicated. We wanted you to arrive together," Frigga explains. "There aren't many mortals here in Valhalla, so we wanted to make the experience as familiar as possible."

"Hmm. Guess that makes sense." Tony nods. Then blinks. "You are aware that _none_ of this is familiar, right? I mean, we're surrounded by smoke in what's supposed to be God Heaven. I mean, I haven't seen this much smoke since the afterparty following my college graduation."

"Okay," Natasha interjects before Tony can say anything else that will absolutely make the Gods rethink allowing another human in Valhalla. "My turn. We'll be here forever if we let him do all the talking. No offense, Tony."

"None taken," the man in question assures her. "I was honestly getting a little tired of listening to myself. Confusion's not a great aesthetic for me."

Natasha ignores him and focuses on her own query. There are a million different questions to ask and a million different reasons to ask them, but there are two that especially stick out, two she's been dying to ask since she first woke up.

"I have two questions," she says, and Frigga gestures for her to continue. "Tony and I, for one. Why are we here? We're not Asgardian."

"I thought you might ask that. It's true. You're not Asgardian. However, typically, when those with no Asgardian blood enter Valhalla, they are here by virtue of a god's blessing."

She looks at Natasha expectantly. Beside her, Tony lets out a faint, "Oh, shit", and by that time Natasha's connected the dots.

"What you mean to say is—_Thor_ gave us his blessing?" she says slowly, and if she were alive, perhaps the weight of this moment would feel more surreal, but she's seen and heard everything at this point, so she knows this is real.

"Years ago," Frigga clarifies. "In fact, I believe he gave your entire team his blessing. Of course, I passed before he could tell me about any of you in depth, but judging from the observations I've made here, he cared a great deal about all of you."

Natasha falters, thoughtful. Thor. Like Tony, she wasn't exceptionally close to him, but she remembers his kindness, his passion, and the fact that he was the drinking buddy to end all drinking buddies. She frowns. Natasha had assumed that through her death, she'd paid her depth to the world.

She assumes she owes one more person.

Frigga isn't wasting any time, because Natasha can't ponder much longer before she says, "And your second question was?"

_My second question. There's really no point asking it now, is there?_ Because the answer to her first puts it into perspective. Natasha doesn't belong here, but not everyone has Thor's compassion at their mercy.

She shakes her head. "There is no second question. I'm satisfied."

She can all but feel the pointed eyebrow Tony raises, but she ignores it in favor of focusing on Frigga's earnest gaze.

"If you're sure that's all—" Frigga gestures for the open gates "—are you ready to enter?"

She isn't ready, but she isn't sure she has a choice. "Ye—"

"Actually," Tony cuts in, "could you give us a minute?"

"What are you doing?" she demands, but Tony doesn't pay her any mind. For a moment Frigga looks as confused as Natasha feels, but then understanding dawns onto her features. She gives a soft smile.

"Take all the time you need," she says, and she gives a polite bow before disappearing into the mist.

There's an elongated silence. Natasha avoids looking Tony in the eye. Since the beginning, he's always been able to read her in a way no man should be able to. She wonders if it might've been different if she hadn't lied to him the first time.

Finally, he sighs, rubbing his temples. "...You didn't deserve what happened to you."

"Neither did you." She doesn't miss a beat.

He snorts, but his voice is sincere when he speaks next. "Have you considered, for a second, that you might deserve this?"

Natasha chuckles sardonically. It isn't that simple. Nothing ever is. "It's a lot more complicated than that."

Tony doesn't respond immediately, and when Natasha spares a glance at him, his expression is blank.

"I..." he inhales sharply, indicating that whatever he's about to say he's yet to come to terms with himself. "I was the Merchant of Death for years. Years before I became Iron Man, and for a while that was all I was, so when it finally sunk in that I was becoming a better person, I was terrified. Terrified because I didn't think it was fair that I got the opportunity to be better when there were thousands of people I'd deprived of that same opportunity. I didn't think I deserved a second chance, and I still don't most of the time, but..."

He huffs through gritted teeth.

"But I'm _learning_," he continues. "I'm learning now that I might deserve that chance. It was hard to reckon with at first, and most days I thought the world would be better off without me, without the burden that was Tony Stark trying to be better than he was—hell, Valhalla might be better off without me—but I figured that as long as I had time left, why not try to be a better version of myself? And not just for me, but for the people I loved and the world at large. Take it from me; sulking and feeling sorry for yourself doesn't do a damn thing, and it wasn't until I stopped sitting around letting guilt consume me that I actually got anything worthwhile accomplished and started to make a difference. And that difference...it was worth everything. Even death. There's no better feeling in the world than the one where you feel—you _know_—you've made a difference. And that, to me, is enough to make anyone keep moving forward. Enough to make anyone decide that maybe they should let go of some of the guilt and give living another shot. I've found that it's becoming enough for me, and...I think it could be enough for you."

Natasha looks at him, _really_ looks at him, because this is the first time she's seen him this open, this encouraging, this _honest_, and judging by his own pensive expression, she thinks this might be the first time he was ever this honest with himself.

"Well," she drawls. "You've certainly learned a lot these past five years, haven't you?'

He shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips. "Mostly that only 34.7% of the world's problems are my fault. I might have also developed a somewhat stableish will to live."

Natasha chooses against asking about the last sentence and considers his words.

Tony had worked the rest of his life to make up for his past, and for that Natasha believes he's more than deserving of Thor's blessing. But Natasha...She'd done as much as she could to wipe her ledger, but she'd never felt as though she done enough. She hasn't done enough, for she's certainly a far cry from a hero. The sins of her past are just that ugly.

_But so are Tony's. Some might even say his are uglier,_ _yet he was able to do what you won't allow yourself to__,_ a matter-of-fact voice says in the back of mind, and she thinks it might be her own, but it sounds younger. Harder. Maybe she needs to be harder on herself, and not in the way she thinks.

"You think...you think I could let go?" she asks in a quiet voice. Years ago she would have despised sounding this vulnerable, but in between love, lost, and her own death, she's come to accept that it isn't a weakness, but a strength she can draw courage from.

"I think you could _try,_" he says, and there's that sentimental quiver in his voice again. "But it's up to you. You don't have to forgive yourself, but the least you can do is try to move on."

Try. She can _try_ to move on from the path of destruction that is her past. _Try_ to move on from the mistakes she's made in her attempt to make up for it. _Try_ to understand why Thor thought extending his blessing to her was at all a clever idea.

_But_. Thor isn't a foolish god. Though he appeared friendly and at times bumbling, Natasha knows he was anything but stupid. Stupid gods just don't catch the eyes of award-winning astrophysicists (besides the fact that they're literal gods, of course). Was it possible he'd seen something special within her, within Tony, within all of the teammates she'd grown to love in one way or another? Maybe there's a reason he wants her here, in Valhalla. A reason that's not as simple as her being able to hold her own well in a fight.

_Maybe_.

"Try," she repeats softly, after a beat of a silence. Her stomach churns. "I can do that."

Tony snorts. "You're the Black Widow. Of course you can. And we've got—_forever_, so I'm guessing that's plenty of time to decide whether or not you'd rather live in everlasting luxury or condemn yourself to a life of eternal damnation. It's totally your choice. Whichever you choose, I'm cool. Just don't make up your mind too quickly, m'kay? I wanna see if they have any fine dining places here, and I am _not _going to one of those alone. Seriously, it's creepy."

"God_,_ would it kill you to not make a joke out of everything?" And despite the somber mood, she laughs. It's something Tony has always been good at.

"Shit. Right. We were having a moment. Where were we?"

She shakes her head. "There's no use now. You killed it. ...Thank you."

"You're welcome—_Natasha_."

He says her name with a warmth she decides she likes hearing on him. It's a sound she never wants to forget.

"Well, Mr. Stark," she declares with a newfound sense of purpose, holding her head high as she slips into a familiar persona. She offers him an arm. "Shall we?"

He smirks, jutting his chin up in a perfect imitation of an arrogance she'd once used as a means to define him. He hooks his arm through hers. "We shall, Ms. Rushman."

Tony starts to move, but Natasha presses her free hand against his chest, stopping him.

"_Please_ don't tell me I have to give you a follow-up speech," he complains, mostly teasing. Mostly. "I'm all out of motivational speeches. The quota is one per year."

"Tony." She stares up at the golden gates. Her heartbeat echoes in her ears. She's the Black Widow. _Natasha Romanoff_. She can do this. She knows that. But —"If I ever...accept any of this, you'll be there, right? When I'm ready to let go?"

She expects an ironic answer. A quip. A "What do you not understand about the word '_eternity_'?" What she gets instead is far more candid.

"_Always._"

She doesn't have to look at him to know he means it. She can hear it. _Feel_ it.

And for now, that's enough.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" she squares her shoulders, feeling lighter than she has in a long time, and Natasha thinks that this just might be off to a decent start. "Come on. Let's see if Heaven is all it's cracked up to be."

"Here! Here!" Tony exclaims. "And if we don't like it, I hear Hades is always open to visitors around this time. I hear he's a riot."

"So did I. Fair warning; I call first dibs on riding Cereberus."

"Not if I beat you to the underworld."

"Oh, you are _on_, Stark."

They exchange glances.

"Together?" he grins.

Natasha returns his grin in full.

"Together."

They look ahead, arms linked and footsteps concurrent as they near closer and closer toward the mist until it envelops them.

She sees white. She can only see white for miles. But despite the fear, the uncertainty, the doubt, she feels alive; she feels—

"_Home_," Tony gasps.

There's an explosion of blinding light. Natasha can hear the drums of war and the cries of thousands of fallen warriors.

She releases a breath.

And basked in gold and vigor, her world recreates itself in light.

* * *

_So if anyone's confused by the ending due to its sheer vagueness, well, I wrote it that way on purpose, but Natasha and Tony, in the end, very dramatically, *have* entered Valhalla—a setting I've actually mapped out in the event that I continue this one-shot. Oh, that would be fun, and of course it would involve lots and lots of Loki (because I'm a shameless stan and he, Tony, and Natasha are, like, crazy similar and would have one of the best trio dynamics out there. So much missed potential, Marvel. So much)._

_Anyways, I hope you liked it, and le__ave a review on your way out please. _


End file.
